


1,300 Miles to Home

by akamine_chan



Category: Hard Core Logo
Genre: M/M, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-31
Updated: 2008-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-02 08:34:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/pseuds/akamine_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe visits Billy when he's in Los Angeles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1,300 Miles to Home

**Author's Note:**

> Mucho thanks to Sionnain for the beta and encouragement. All remaining mistakes are mine, of course. This was gonna be a New Year present for my f-list, but once I got it out into the light, I saw how worn and used it looked, tarnished, with the corners kinda bent and scuff marks all over it. So I tried to clean it up a little, wipe off the dust, but that just seemed to make things worse...Happy New Year, everyone.
> 
> Also available as a [podfic](http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/1300-miles-to-home) performed by the lovely Luzula.

_Los Angeles_

Part of the contract he'd signed with his agent in L.A. stipulated that he would attend weekly Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. He'd shown up for one too many gigs drunk and it was either the AA or no more session work.

He needed the work to keep the rent paid and food in the fridge. Without work, he'd have to go back to Vancouver with his tail tucked between his legs, back to Joe and Hard Core Logo. And he swore to himself he would never, ever do that.

He went to the AA meetings.

Billy went and sat in the back of the room, drinking bad coffee and watching with a sneer on his face at all the other losers who whined and moaned about how bad things were. About how the booze had taken away their lives, their families, their loved ones.

Every week, George would ask, "William, do you have anything to share with the group?"

Billy would stare at him, biting back the "fuck you" that lingered on his tongue. "No."

"Well, maybe you'll share next time."

Yeah, right.

* * *

He left the meeting and headed out into the evening. It wasn't cold; it never got cold in L.A. but he could feel a chill. He turned up the collar of his jacket and headed back home. He came to the meetings here at the All Saints' Church because it was a short walk away from his apartment.

Stopping for a moment to light a cigarette, he hunched his shoulders against the breeze and cupped his hands around the lighter. He took a deep drag and when he looked up, there was Joe.

He jumped back and dropped his cigarette. "Fuck!"

It scared the shit out of him, because one minute he was alone and the next Joe was looming over him, grinning maniacally like an axe-murderer. He didn't think Joe could be that stealthy.

"The fuck, Joe? What are you doing here?"

"Well, Billiam, that's a pretty philosophical question..."

"Oh, fuck off." Billy was not amused. "What are you doing in _L.A._?"

Joe frowned at him. "Can't a guy visit his best buddy, the buddy he hasn't seen in forever? Jeez, Billy, that hurts."

Giving Joe the bird, he turned and started walking away. He was so not doing this.

"I missed you, Billy!" Joe shouted, mocking. "Biiiiilllllly!"

Billy didn't turn around, and he didn't look back.

* * *

Two days later Billy staggered home exhausted and starved after a marathon session that ran late into the night. He set his guitar case by the door and toed his shoes off, stumbling toward the kitchen. He navigated the cluttered room by memory, skirting around the rickety table, concentrating on _not_ stubbing toes on the metal table legs when the little light above the sink clicked on, throwing Joe's face into stark relief.

"Fuck!" He jumped back, bumping into the table and almost knocking it over. "The hell, Joe!"

Joe grins. "Boo."

"You fucker." The combination of adrenalin and fatigue left him too shaken to be really angry. "How the hell did you get in?"

In an attempt to look innocent, Joe smiled slyly and shrugged. "The door was unlocked."

Which was bullshit. Billy didn't live in the kind of neighborhood where you could leave your door unlocked.

"Yeah, whatever." Billy opened the fridge and grabbed the milk, sniffing at it suspiciously before chugging it straight from the carton. He hucked the empty carton into the garbage can in the corner, which was already overflowing with empty pizza boxes and take out containers.

Joe lit a cigarette and exhaled loudly. "Listen, Billy, I need to talk to you."

Billy's hand twitched toward his shirt pocket, where his own cigarettes were, but he stopped himself. He was too fucking tired to deal with Joe's wheeling and dealing right now. He would end up agreeing to something he would regret later and he was done with that.

"'M not dealing with this now. See yourself out, will you?" he said over his shoulder as he went into the sanctuary of his bedroom. He shut the door behind him, locking it for good measure, falling onto the bed and sinking into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

It was another week before Billy saw him again.

It was hockey night, and it was late by the time he'd gotten off his ass and called in a take-out order. He'd gone down the street to the Saigon to pick up his Bo Luc Lac and garlic prawn rolls and when he'd popped out of the restaurant, there was Joe, leaning against a light post and smoking a cigarette, the very definition of punk rock cool.

"Jesus Christ, Joe, fuck off, you asshole. Stop following me around."

Joe just grinned and flicked his cigarette butt away. "C'mon, Billiam, don't be such a pussy. I need your help."

"No."

"But you haven't even—"

"No."

"Billy—"

Joe's voice took on that grating whine that Billy hated, had always hated, ever since they were kids. Sometimes he'd done whatever Joe wanted just to get him to shut the fuck up and stop whining. He started walking back to his apartment, unwilling to give Joe a chance to gear up and really get into his spiel.

Joe followed, not letting up. Not like Billy really expected him to.

"C'mon, Biiilllllly. Stop being such a prick."

Billy ignored him.

"Billy. Biiilllllly! Talk to me or I'll call you names all the way home."

Billy continued to ignore him, wanting to get home before the food got much colder. It wouldn't be long before Joe got arrested for disturbing the peace and Billy did _not_ want to be there for that. He'd just end up bailing the bastard out of jail, again.

"Faggot!"

He lowered his head and kept walking. Joe would give up, sooner or later.

"Cocksucker!"

People were starting to stare. Billy could feel the prickle of their eyes on him, trying to strip him down and see _inside_.

"Cunt!"

Billy whirled, pushed past his breaking point. Without thinking, he dropped his take-out and threw a hard punch at Joe's mouth, wanting him to shut the fuck up. And somehow, his fist passed _through_ Joe's body, throwing Billy off-balance. He ended up behind Joe, dropping to one knee to keep from falling flat on his face. Expecting to hear Joe's jeering laughter, he climbed back onto his feet and turned, but Joe was _gone_.

Shivering, Billy replayed the whole freaky thing over in his mind, seeing his fist flying towards Joe's face. For a brief moment, in the split second before Billy's punch should have landed, fear had flashed in Joe's eyes. Billy had seen a lot of things on Joe's face over the years: lust, contempt, hate, derision, smugness, and rarely, happiness. Not fear, though. He'd never seen fear on Joe's face, even when they'd been in deep shit and he _should_ have been afraid.

* * *

Billy went home and dreamed about Joe, face drawn and skeletal, a raw, bloody hole in the side of his head.

He spent the next week drunk on cheap whiskey, trying to wash that imagine out of his mind.

He didn't see Joe again until the reunion tour.

* * *

_Mount Pleasant Cemetery_

Billy crouched next to the grave, chin down, feeling lost and wrecked.

"I wish you had talked to me in L.A., made me understand what was going on. Maybe I could have stopped..." He shook his head. In L.A., he'd been too busy hiding. Even if Joe _had_ talked, he hadn't been in a place to _listen_.

He put his hand on the grass, hoping to feel _something_, a stir of breath, a faint echo of life. Nothing. He thought that maybe he owed himself, and Joe, some truth.

"I miss you."

He waited for a while, but Joe never came back.

-fin-


End file.
